Walk, Talk and Breathe.

Friends that refuse to respect of me,
the smallest of ways that I ask to be,
excused from their own stupidity,
yet – they choose to abuse,
and they find these things funny…
A family turned to the judge and jury,
no hand extended in my times of need,
the after-burn of that first, initial sting,
the day I noticed they were on an opposing team…
Others play the friendly role all too regularly,
to the point it’s obvious there’s no true identity,
behind any of the faces in the places close to me,
just life-sized puppets that walk, talk and breathe…

Grandeur.

I have been,
listening…

and hearing you…
your every cent or two,
every jerking move,
and yet you prove…
to somehow be,
totally and completely,
shocked to find…
blackened faces,
fill up the spaces,
between the lines…
Hello, big guy!
I will be fair,
I won’t deny,
through my grandeur…
what did,
indeed,

appear and seem,
to be,
a valiant try…

for your part,
at least
but, then again,
surprise!

Nonplussed…
it’s still just,
without compromise,
and really shouldn’t be,
such a novel thing,
that I’m not listening,
after so much,
of the go and touch…
the itchy sting,
ear-ringing,

fucking redundancy…
see the burning,
behind my eyes,
see the hatred,
memorized…

please just let me be.
As, so it goes that,
eyes like mine,
chiseled by,
the passing time…

are not destined to see.

Invasive.

I have my own invasive mass of cancerous needs,

dotting my insides like tumors to match yours,

but, mine won’t kill me – not yet at least,

they’ll grow bigger along with yours, though…

as time is inhaled into the night skies,

our allotment dwindles before our eyes,

I’ve always foreseen and known,

but could never fully imagine it’s blow,

like a repeated cinch around my throat,

the defeated pitch of my voice as I choke,

over words and feelings I can’t integrate,

in order to make sense of such sensible fate,

there is a break in the line,

if there’s no you in the future of mine,

there’s no way I will prove to be,

strong as I’ve always liked to believe,

without certain pieces of you ever-hanging,

like homemade chimes over my life,

a dreamcatcher made to be grasped at from my bed,

now, nothing in the Universe feels right in my head,

there’s a new hole somewhere in my soul,

of which spills out unstoppably –

my childlike love and adoration,

I miss you already, even as we plan Christmas,

even as we plan your death, together,

you apologize to me for dying of cancer,

a different person now, you feel bad and regretful,

for the fact that you will, indeed, be leaving me soon,

You whispered:

“…but, I’ve only myself to blame – I did this…”

as I put out a cigarette and wipe my face.

 

 

 

My Kid.

Overdosed again.

She is alive, but in ICU again.

There truly can’t be anything more emotionally painful or spiritually murderous than to live in this particular realm of Limbo; where the knowledge of so much misery and ruin of my only (though completely estranged) child is permanent. 

Grandeur.

I have been listening
and hearing you
your every cent or two
every jerking move
and yet you prove
to somehow be
totally and completely
shocked to find
blackened faces
fill up the spaces
between the lines
Hello, big guy
I will be fair
I won’t deny
through such grandeur
what did indeed
appear and seemed
a valiant try
for your part
at least
but, then,surprise…
It’s still just me
without compromise
and shouldn’t be
such a novel thing
that I’m no Lady
after so much
of the go and touch
fucking redundancy
see the burning
behind my eyes
please just let me be
so it goes that
eyes like mine
are not destined to see.

Sunday.

It’s Sunday; and sometime in early December…I hate the holidays.

I have been in a notably embittered state of being as of late; I wake up in a shit mood and spend my day feeling either numb or way too much emotion, shuffle my feet around and paint makeup on my face, do my normal routine of being a pissed-off and resentful human being for x amount of hours – before I will eventually (and still angrily) find my way to bed and fitfully fall asleep (Gods willing).

I am at home; I am surrounded by cheering men; men who honestly have very little concern in life outside of Fantasy Football rankings and Christmas shopping for the so-called “difficult” women with whom each has settled down with.

I am somewhere I did not really anticipate being, somehow; despite the situation I have been held hostage inside of (in the context of Boo) for all of these painful and dehumanizing years… I somehow never genuinely considered the possibility of such a circumstance as that which I now find myself: a place where motherhood does not live; a place where years of invested time, love, energy and hope can be found strangled into lifelessness and shriveling up in the unforgiving heat, a place where the thought of my only child makes my stomach feel sick in the most literal sense.

When I look at Boo’s face, I now see only her father’s there; his features stand out so strongly against the muted ones I contributed…there is actually very, very little of me anywhere in here at all. I keep finding myself thinking about abstract and unimportant trivia when it comes to the unhappy ending of this story; things like:

  • How the abusive, violent, backstabbing, murderous and psychopathic piece of trash of a father was able to imprint so many horrible characteristics and traits upon her without hardly ever knowing her;
  • How chillingly similar everything about the two of them has turned out to be, despite EVERYTHING I tried in order to make sure that couldn’t happen;

The thought that seems to be stuck like a piece of chewed up gum to the forefront of my exhausted mind is constantly buzzing inside my ear, asking me

“How is any of this even possible?”

There comes no response of course, just the same query over and over until my head hurts.

I have a seething and roiling hatred growing inside of me that feels bad, and is shocking in its severity. I feel disgust over so many things in the world, especially in my own little corner of it; I am lost and aimless, emotionally numb and going through motion after motion. I am turned off. I am tuned out. I am shut down. It comes to this crazy thought every time, the one in which I have sold everything I own worth anything and just POOF! disappeared into the masses of the urban jungles somewhere, where? I don’t know or care. I have been gradually been ridding myself of all the boxes full of hope that I have lugged around with me for the years Boo was gone: craft supplies, old drawings and school papers of hers, clear tubs of pens and pencils and crayons and scrap-booking shit for days. I won’t ever need or use any of it; that time has passed for me now.

The freedom attached to suddenly not being anyone’s Mom feels alien, even as it feels okay on some days, almost tolerable. Other days, I wake up with both middle fingers locked straight upwards; other times, I just want to die.

Diorama.

I count the many drawn-out days,

pass through this feebly clinging brain,

walk in the shine of a sun that is fake,

I exist in a time made of Paper Mache;

A tableau that depicts alternate ways,

the many varying twists and turns of my days,

the illusion of a normalcy frozen in place,

the gentlest wind blows the facade away;

the wheeling of paper-thin figures that blow,

from the set of this warm and fuzzy side-show,

the diorama scene that rips, and tears and folds,

beneath my fingertips as I fight to keep my hold;

the pieces burn and sizzle in my palm as hot as coal.